


Palate Cleanser

by days4daisy



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blood, M/M, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-03 04:04:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4085950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is like poets to be drawn to their own demise. They are like Judas, in this way. Or, like Will Graham.</p>
<p>--<br/>Takes place during Episode 3x01. Heavy spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Palate Cleanser

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt at Hannibal fic. I had to write something after that season premiere. Enjoy :)

This is a room of the aesthetic, wealth and prestige. Cultured arrogance flows sweet like champagne. Corks pop like gunfire, but there is no flinch. The assembled are too absorbed in soliloquies. Renaissance paintings, Milton's layers of wording, philosophy. On and on.

It is these airs that Hannibal celebrates, and these airs that he loathes. Wisdom can become its own kind of tedium. The drivel of academia, a pissing contest of wits. He loves it in a way, for he is better than them. Their attempts at posturing are a circus of amusement. 

Until he is no longer amused, and boredom requires action.

He is better, too, than the ones left behind. Alive or Dead? Alive, Hannibal believes. Death seems too final for a scene departed prematurely. Phoenixes rise, after all. Traitors rise too.

The man who catches Hannibal's eye does not look like Will Graham. But he is close enough to earn a second glance. 

The fellow mistakes his interest for an invitation. He is double-fisting Brut in the midst of class and dignity. Hannibal is embarrassed for him, and delighted. The man is awkward in this setting. Unkempt hair and clothes, a struggling poet here for the free champagne.

His contempt for the intellectual is entertaining. Will's rants were too. Hannibal recalls the grit of his teeth and the wrinkle of tension on the bridge of his nose. 

Hannibal has found himself missing their verbal spars of late.

"I'm afraid this company has become claustrophobic," Hannibal says. The hour grows late, and Dr. Fell will soon depart. So, too, must Hannibal.

It is a stir of self-pity that bids him to add, "Adieu. Until we meet again, Mr..."

"Dimmond," the man replies. "But, please - Anthony. A humble poet like myself cannot abide by proper titles."

Hannibal has no interest in his name. But he does not regret asking for it. His feigned interest is his gift, a thank you for an evening of nostalgia. The man will leave believing that Hannibal cares enough to remember him.

He is inconvenienced, but not surprised, when Dimmond appears in Italy. The world is a small place, made smaller by the curious.

Dimmond cocks his head when Dr. Fell's name is applied to him. Hannibal sighs. He is smart enough to know, but not smart enough to flee. The simplest of targets.

They dance for a time.

Dimmond attends Hannibal's supper with the flourish of his tipsy academia performance. He knows a great deal about culture and taste. But he slights his own knowledge with an upturned nose. 

Dimmond is the intellectual who hates intellect. Hannibal is grated by his breezy self-importance. He was provoked by Will too. His observations were always arrogant in their simplicity. 

But Will did not affect airs. He was who he was - a fisherman, a feeler. A liar, in the end.

Dimmond is too open, his interest too obvious. 

Bedelia baits him, of course. Dimmond's presence makes her uncomfortable. He is a rabbit among wolves. His lure excites and terrifies her.

"Is it that kind of party?" Dimmond misinterprets.

Hannibal toys with the idea. 

He is not particularly roused to it, though the fault does not lie with Dimmond. Sex is just one option in an array of physical stimulants. Hannibal, for the most part, does not find it satisfying. What is accomplished by shedding the outer shell of clothing? A fleeting hint of pleasure in a pile of limbs? Sex leaves the throat parched, a shadow of true union.

Hannibal touched Will, yes. But a hand on his cheek meant more than one between the legs. Their bond was so much deeper than skin. 

Hannibal cut past the external. Blood swelled from Will's stomach, gushing over shaking fingers. He grasped for his own warmth, but it spilled out, unhindered. 

Will gave, finally, as Hannibal had. He shared of himself, as Hannibal did. At last, Will could understand the pain of his betrayal.

Hannibal glances at Dimmond. He is not thrilled by the idea of sex, but he is not against it either. Dimmond is a man who wears affection like an overcoat. There is intrigue to physical contact with a man who carelessly reveals his desires over dinner.

Dimmond's mind, Hannibal gleans, would be a more arduous onion to peel. Hannibal does not care enough about Dimmond to waste the effort of knowing him. Sex will be easier. Hannibal can have the glimpse he wants without the toil of understanding. 

He looks to Bedelia. She turns her head with a thick, opposed swallow.

Very well. "It's not that kind of party," Hannibal replies.

"It most certainly isn't." Bedelia's voice is barely a whisper.

Dimmond is disappointed but not offended. He expresses regret with terms like "pity" and "fascinating."

He is too brash. Hannibal grows weary. A cat can only toy with a mouse for so long.

But something, again, stops him.

Hannibal shows Dimmond to the door. He nods as he opens it. "Goodnight, Anthony," he says. A smile answers the use of his first name. The expression cuts with what Dimmond thinks he knows. It labels Hannibal a killer, and whispers that he will not run.

It is like poets to be drawn to their own demise. They are like Judas, in this way. Or, like Will Graham.

"You let him go," Bedelia says. She believes she is relieved. But Hannibal hears her disappointment.

Bedelia flees when Dimmond arrives late to the lecture on Dante. Hannibal beckons him before the group, presenting him as worthy before this cultured company. 

Dimmond's eyes light up. He wears his lust for regard plainly. Unlike Will, so unlike him.

Dimmond is not a born fisherman. He makes claims about the police. Perhaps he should alert them to Hannibal's assumed misdeeds. Perhaps he will. But he does not wish to twist Hannibal into an uncomfortable position. Surely they can find some beneficial arrangement.

He is a poet, after all. A poet craves his own twisting.

Hannibal plays along. "You are a lone traveler, Anthony. Money, I'm sure, would greatly aid your quest."

Dimmond barks a laugh. "I'm not interested in money, doctor." Hannibal's title is spit with malice.

Hannibal nods, a barely perceptible incline. "It is something else you're after."

"Yes."

Dimmond is near enough to smell the sweet of his skin. He indulged himself at dinner. Oysters and acorns. There is mint to his breath too. Not of false, store bought candies. Something distinctly earthy. A palate cleanser, perhaps.

"Interesting," Hannibal observes. "You use your tongue to slander me. And you use it to entice."

Dimmond steps closer. He invades respectful space, but this is all he invades. His hands stay at his sides. But his tongue strokes his bottom lip. Plumping it for Hannibal's sampling.

"What if your accusations are true?" Hannibal asks.

"I'm sure we can find some understanding, doctor."

He is too easy. He is not Will Graham.

Hannibal sets a hand on Dimmond's stomach. Unbroken. Unblemished. A tight presence beneath layers of fabric. 

He will bleed beautifully, but not like Will. Their intimacy came from a shared, resonating pain. A many-month-long tryst that was never to last.

Dimmond wants too freely. He is too hungry.

Dimmond's hand slides around his wrist. He is not subtle as he guides Hannibal's fingers to his waist. Hannibal hooks his hand underneath. His knuckles touch skin.

"I'd like you to return home with me," Hannibal says.

Dimmond raises a brow. "Will your wife approve?"

Hannibal smiles, easiness matched with ease. "She may participate, or she may observe. Either way, she will be willing."

"Well...fuck," Dimmond says. Appropriate. He breathes a laugh moments before Hannibal breathes him. Mouth to mouth, an open kiss. 

Dimmond chuckles into it. His hand becomes bolder, curling around Hannibal's ribs. But he is oddly polite. The fingers stay above Hannibal's suit coat, a dull drum of pressure on his back.

Hannibal dips his hand. His knuckles press into the softness of Dimmond's belly. The skin is tender here, a trail of hair leading the way. 

"You kiss like a gentleman," Hannibal remarks. He is, maybe, a touch surprised.

Dimmond smiles. "Then I've fooled you, haven't I?"

He is like Will after all. Too much like Will.

"Come," Hannibal says. "Let's go home."

*The End*

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm on [Tumblr](http://daisy4days.tumblr.com) too if you'd like to say hi over there.


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